


Nova Won't Burn Out

by Xris



Series: A Song I Knew The Lyrics To [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author spent too much time Googling symbolism, Blood Magic, Gen, Let's be honest and call this pre-slash, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Overextended Cake-Pie Metaphors, Polish Grandmothering, Witches, allusions to non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:45:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xris/pseuds/Xris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His aunt had given Babcia a hard time when she’d insisted on taking Stiles. She was already in her late seventies and Stiles was generally assumed to be too much of a handful for anyone to want him, really. Not to mention she’d moved across the country to avoid uprooting him from Beacon Hills. But Babcia had insisted—“I raised six children including you, Ania, I can raise one more”—and two weeks after his parents’… after everything settled a bit, she’d claimed his father’s old office as her bedroom. Neither of them dared venture into the master bedroom. Not then. It was still too fresh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you know the secret of magic, _zabka_?” 

Babcia struck a match, the flame flicking to life curiously loud in the silence of the kitchen. A single white candle and a handful of rocks were scattered on the table between them. Babcia lit the candle and shook the match to kill it.

“What is it?” Stiles asked quietly. 

“Belief.” 

His aunt had given Babcia a hard time when she’d insisted on taking Stiles. She was already in her late seventies and Stiles was generally assumed to be too much of a handful for anyone to want him, really. Not to mention she’d moved across the country to avoid uprooting him from Beacon Hills. But Babcia had insisted—“I raised six children including you, Ania, I can raise one more”—and two weeks after his parents’… after everything settled a bit, she’d claimed his father’s old office as her bedroom. Neither of them dared venture into the master bedroom. Not then. It was still too fresh. 

Babcia smelled like garlic and over-steeped mint tea. He’d hated it when he’d been younger. Spent days complaining about the smell to his mother whenever she visited. But he’d almost cried at the familiarity when she’d walked into the Sheriff’s office to pick him up, fresh from the airport. 

They’d forgotten him at first. His parents had been on a date when the car accident happened, and the Sheriff’s office had been so struck by the sight of one of their own in the crumpled remnants of his Mom’s Jeep that they hadn’t remembered him. Stiles figured his parents were running late and had abused the opportunity to stay up late with his Xbox and the stash of peanut M&Ms his mother hid in the pantry until he’d finally crashed and fallen asleep on the sofa. 

The knock on the door woke him up the following morning, followed by the first stirrings of fear. His Dad should’ve moved him back to bed. He always did. And the house didn’t smell like coffee. His Mom always set the maker.

When he’d seen Sheriff Richards at the door, he’d answered it. But when the first words out of his mouth started with ‘I’m sorry’ he’d slammed it shut and refused to open it again. It hadn’t mattered. His Dad had given Sheriff Richards a key to the house years ago anyway and nothing Stiles could do had stopped him from eventually hearing the rest of it. 

He’d done okay for a while. All through the funeral and afterwards, he had managed to keep himself from crying. The guidance councilor at school had told him it was all right to cry. That no one would think less of him. And even when Mrs. McCall had hugged him tighter than she’d ever hugged him before—even after the time he’d called an ambulance to come and help Scott when he’d had an asthma attack and no one else had been home. He’d wanted to be strong. 

It hadn’t mattered how good he’d been. All it took was a couple of words from Jackson in school during lunch about a month later—“you should’ve been in the car, Stilinski”—and he’d lost it. Hadn’t even realized what he was doing when he’d jumped on Jackson and whaled on him, tears and gasping sobs drowning out all the other sound around him. When Mrs. Bryant had finally hauled him off, he’d almost blacked out, unable to breathe and fighting for the scantest breath of air. Babcia had come to pick him up and he’d spent the rest of the afternoon curled up on the couch with her, crying. 

“You needed a good cry,” she whispered. 

Stiles didn’t argue, but he didn’t really believe her either. Stupid, _stupid_ Jackson. 

After dinner, Babcia waved him back into his seat at the kitchen table. 

“I tried to teach your father the secrets of magic, but he had no talent for it.” She placed a folded piece of black cloth beside her. “But you, I think, have the spark.”

“The spark?” Stiles repeated dully. 

“Yes. The spark.” She unfolded the cloth and picked out a piece of white chalk. “I can teach you these things. My father knew them. And his father. All of us, back many, many generations.” Babcia’s accent had all but disappeared since she’d moved to the States, but sometimes the way she spoke struck him as different. Foreign. “I had thought to teach you as well, but then your parents moved you here and I did not have the chance.”

She drew a circle around the candle. Stiles watched silently, resting his head on crossed arms. Squiggling marks followed, though he couldn’t tell if the placement was random or what. Stiles blinked when goosebumps spread across his arms. The atmosphere in the room shifted. Warm air drifted across his left arm and cold across his right. He straightened, surprised out of his complacency.

“What can magic do?” he asked. His voice was still hoarse, barely a whisper. 

Babcia smiled in encouragement. “A great many things.” She finished the last of the chalk drawings and picked up a clear piece of what looked like quartz and handed it to him. Stiles took it gingerly and almost dropped it when it suddenly grew hot in his hands. She nodded to herself, and her lips twitched downwards. “But you have to remember, what you put into magic comes out of it. If you put in your malice and anger, you will receive nothing but those in return.”

Stiles frowned. “So I can’t turn Jackson into a newt or anything.”

Babcia shook her head fondly. “No.” She grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands forward into the circle. “Rub the crystal back and forth in your hands.” 

Stiles did, rolling the smooth-cut crystal between his palms. “What’s this going to do?” 

“It will give us some insight into your future. When I did this as a girl, it showed me a crane.”

“What did it mean?” 

A real smile crept up Babcia’s face, lighting her eyes and pulling her wrinkles tight enough to give her the momentary impression of youth. “Never you mind.” She glanced at his hands. “Faster.” 

Stiles sped up, rolling the crystal back and forth as quickly as he could. It began to heat up even more and after a few minutes his biceps strained with the effort to keep the pace. The candle flickered, the small lick of flame spreading out beyond what the wick should have allowed. The light seemed to dance across the chalk outlines, making them glow and cast shadows on the table beneath. 

He grit his teeth as the crystal began to burn his palms until it got too hot to handle and he dropped it with a hiss. He yanked his hands back and tucked them under his armpits. The candle sputtered out and the chalk returned to its original flat outline. 

Babcia gave him a moment and then gestured him forward. “Let me see your left hand. It is your past.” 

“I’m twelve,” he said, “I don’t have much of a past, Babcia.”

“Newborns have a past. Let me see.” 

He held it out, surprised that the skin wasn’t the slightest bit red. It’d felt for a second like his hand was going to burn away. It was already slightly faded, but the white outline of a bow with an arrow pulled taut was startlingly clear nevertheless. 

“And your right.” 

He held it out, frowning when he saw the white design within. “I don’t know what that is.” 

Babcia studied the symbol for a moment. “It is a glimpse of your future. A triskele.” Both of the markings were already fading away. “These things will come to have meaning for you. When they do, you must not look away. People meet their destiny on the paths taken to avoid it.” 

“Master Oogway said that on _Kung Fu Panda_ ,” Stiles said. He watched his hands until the symbols faded away all together. “We should watch that. You’d like it.” He quieted. “Mom did.” 

“Then I’m sure I will too.” 

Babcia cupped his cheek in her hand. Her skin was papery thin and cool, brown liver spots standing out amidst the wrinkles and distended veins. “Why don’t you go and set it up for us. I will clean this up.” 

Stiles nodded, but paused before he went. “Will we do more magic soon?” 

“Tomorrow, _zabka_. And every day you want.” 

He smiled and headed into the den to set up the DVD player. Behind him, he heard the clatter of rocks as Babcia collected her small trove of treasures and tucked them away.

* * *

“You must always be wary of Hunters, _zabka_.” 

Stiles frowned as he lifted the wax-soaked wicks from the wax. “Hunters?” 

“Yes. Hunters are especially dangerous for us. The others they hunt—the wolves, the cats, the bright ones, the beasts—they see as monsters possessed of a nature that does not allow them to act as humans might. But those of us who use magic are human, and therefore what the monsters cannot help, we embrace.” 

Stiles gasped and whipped his hand back as a dribble of hot wax hit the skin of his index finger. 

“Is that what happened at the Salem Witch Trials?” They were reading _The Crucible_ in school. In history class no less. It’d probably make more sense once he finished it. Maybe.

“No, _zabka_. Salem, the Spaniards, the witch-hunts of Europe, all of these are human folly aimed to attack the unknown and the vulnerable. Real Hunters are quiet and keep their business to the very darkness they claim to protect.” Babcia stood and wandered over to the counter to watch Stiles dip the half-formed candle back into the stand. “Your great-grandfather was killed by a Hunter when I was a girl.”

“What happened?” 

“My mother’s village in Poland was very small. Everyone knew everyone’s business. They knew our family, and came to us for many things. Protection. Blessings. Charms. Small trinkets to encourage fertility and luck. Things I will teach you. 

“One day a stranger came to the village. A man peddling false wares and promises. My father sent him away. In anger, the stranger called upon a group of Hunters he knew. They stalked my father for weeks, watching. Waiting. And one night, when he was alone paying his respect to the forest, they caught him and—” She paused. “Perhaps you are too young for this story.”

“Not fair, Babcia. You’ve already started telling it.” 

“I have. And it serves its purpose, I suppose.” She waited for Stiles to finish with another candle. “There is a belief that magic is in the blood instead of the soul. Hunters fear our blood and what it can do.”

“Is magic in the blood?” 

“Not our magic, _zabka_. Never our magic. 

“When they caught my father, they made many little cuts all over his body to drain the blood from him and dispel his power. When my mother found his body, there was none left within.” 

“Brutal,” Stiles muttered.

“Yes. We moved to America soon after. But we found there were Hunters here as well.”

“Are there any in Beacon Hills?” Stiles asked.

Babcia’s gaze grew troubled. “I don’t know. You must always be careful when you share your secret. Hunters rely on our carelessness to track us down, instead of the signs left by the others they hunt. Trust your instincts to tell you who is dangerous and who is an ally.” 

“What about the charm you showed me? The one that lets you figure out who’s lying?” 

“If you can find a way to carry it with you, it would serve you well.”

Stiles nodded to himself, mind already racing a thousand miles a second trying to figure out how he could make it work.

* * *

“Are you sure about this, Stiles?” Scott asked. He shifted nervously from foot-to-foot, looking up and down the intersection. 

They’d parked themselves behind a hedge near one of the four stop signs so Stiles could finish working in relative quiet. He didn’t think Babcia would particularly approve if she knew what they were getting up to, but it was important to Scott and therefore it was important to Stiles.

“Totally.” Stiles barely glanced up from the net of knots he’d spent the last three hours tying. He’d bought the plain white string with his own money and soaked it in fennel tea for two days before bringing it out to finish off. Babcia always said he tied excellent knots, but he’d never done something this involved before. “You want him to stop bothering your Mom, don’t you?”

Scott sighed and slumped down on the grass next to Stiles. “Yeah.” He nudged a clump of dandelion stems with the toe of his sneakers. “He called four times this week. I think he was drunk. And his friends have been letting him use their phones, so it’s not like Mom can block his calls, either.” 

Stiles’ nose wrinkled. “If Dad were still around, he’d tell him off for you.” 

Scott stiffened uncomfortably. He never seemed to know what to do when Stiles talked about his parents. “I know he would, dude.” 

Stiles nodded to himself and set in to finish what remained of the netting. It wasn’t very big. Maybe the size of an unfolded napkin. But it would work. It had to work. This was the first important bit of magic Stiles had ever done. 

“Okay. Give me the picture.” 

Scott reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded wedding photograph. White lines had dug into the finish where it’d been folded and unfolded nervously several times. The picture itself smelled like stale cigarette smoke and liquor-sweat. Scott had stolen it from his father’s dresser their last weekend together. 

Stiles laid it facedown on the net and pulled out a black marker. 

“Write down what you want to happen.”

Scott immediately put the butt of the pen in his mouth and bit down a couple of times, his brow furrowing in thought. When he finally uncapped it, he leaned over and scribbled down ‘dont call, don’t come over, stop bugging mom.’ Then, after a moment’s thought, continued with, ‘pay ALL the suport $$.’

He dropped the pen when he was finished like it was burning his hand. Stiles bent the picture in half along one of the previously-made creases and folded the net over it.

Scott grabbed his wrist before he could tug the last corner down. “This isn’t gonna hurt him, right? I don’t want to hurt him.”

“No.” Stiles frowned. “But you might never get to talk to him again.” 

Scott recoiled. “Wait, what?”

“I don’t know, Scott. It’s the first time I’ve done this. But if he only calls you because he think it’ll bother your Mom, then he’s not going to call again after we do this. No evil intent. That’s the whole point.”

Scott stared down at the bundle, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He’d seen Mr. McCall a few times since the divorce had been finalized, and each time he came home afterwards he’d been so down that Stiles hadn’t been able to coax a smile out of him for days. After this last time, when he’d come home with an empty inhaler and no refill, Stiles had finally offered to help. He trusted Scott to keep the secret. As long as no one asked him directly, anyway. 

“If…” Scott angrily rubbed his sleeve across his eyes. “If he only wants to see me because he knows it’ll piss Mom off, I don’t want to talk to him anyway.” 

Stiles nodded and clapped Scott’s shoulder—the way he’d seen his Dad do a hundred times with his buddies—and finished with the net. 

The intersection was the closest equivalent he could find to crossroads without venturing out of town. And while they couldn’t dig up the middle, Stiles dug a small hole on the very corner near the hedge and dropped the net inside. He raked the disturbed dirt back over and patted it down. 

“What now?” Scott asked, staring at the small mound of loose soil.

“Mario Kart?” Stiles offered. 

Scott nodded and followed Stiles back to where they’d leaned their bikes up against the stop sign.

Mr. McCall didn’t call again.

* * *

Stiles placed the bouquet of pink and orange blossoms down on the gravestone Mom shared with his father, wincing when he sat down beside it. Gerbera daisies were his Mom’s favorite, but he never had anything for Dad.

“Sorry, Dad. As soon as I’m old enough, I’ll bring you a bottle of whiskey. Or something.” He tucked his legs up to his chest and studied the marker. They hadn’t been able to afford anything fancy. It was just a simple plaque on the ground. There wasn’t even one of the small vases some of the others had built in. Stiles rested his head on his knees and let his eyes drift over his parents’ names. 

“I start high school next month. How crazy is that?” Stiles launched into a recitation of his finals—though he’d probably already told them everything already. He’d graduated middle school with the second-highest GPA in his class, though he still wasn’t sure who’d beaten him. Not that middle school mattered much, really. High School was where the important stuff happened. Everyone knew that. 

As he talked, he pulled his pocket knife from his pants and began scraping the closet corner of the marker. He’d found the knife among his father’s things when they’d finally cleared out the master bedroom and he’d claimed it as his. The idle scratching quickly became something coherent. A symbol of peace. As he worked, an easy sort of quiet settled on his shoulders and he focused on the small details. 

He finished an hour later and pulled back his hand to look it over. The finger he’d held down the dull side of the blade with was blistered and red, but the small engraving looked perfect. Totally worth it. Maybe it would save the headstone from the vandalism that occasionally befell the other graves in the yard. Stiles tucked the knife back in his pocket. 

He shifted his position and suddenly became aware of someone watching him. Turning in place, he caught sight of an older boy standing a few feet away. He wasn’t quite an adult yet, though obviously he was getting there, and he was looking at Stiles with equal amounts annoyance and concern.

“Hey,” Stiles finally ventured. 

“Hi.” Heavy eyebrows pulled together and the other guy tilted his chin towards his parents’ gravestone. “I came to…” He paused. “It’s stupid.”

Stiles blinked. “Did you know them?” 

“Sort of.” He slid closer. He was taller than Stiles, and way less gangly. Muscles were just beginning to fill out his frame, and he carried himself awkwardly, as if he wasn’t used to it. “Your Dad saved me from doing something really stupid, once.” 

Stiles’ lips twitched. “That sounds like him.” He rubbed his left eye with the heel of his hand. “I did so many stupid things he couldn’t save me from all of them.”

The boy took the admission as tacit permission and sat down beside Stiles. “I’m Derek.” 

“Stiles.” He peered at Derek out of the corner of his eye. Derek had the sort of face that seemed to settle naturally into a half-frown, but Stiles willing to bet he’d be gorgeous if he smiled. Not that he noticed stuff like that. No sir. Not unless it pertained to Lydia Martin, anyway. “You were saying?”

Derek huffed out a breath. “Sometimes I come here to think. It’s pretty loud back at home.” He frowned. “And I thought being here could give me some idea about what I’m supposed to do with my life.” 

Stiles thought about that for a second. “Mom would have a thousand and one ideas for you. Even if she didn’t know you at all.” He voice wobbled a little and he coughed to clear it. “But Dad would probably just listen to you talk until you figured it out on your own. And then he’d say something that made everything make sense.” His lips twitched in a half-smile. “I remember him telling me that if I wanted to be an astronaut, I’d have to get over my fear of the dark.” 

Derek glanced his way. “Did you?”

“For a while.” 

They sat in silence for a few minutes until Stiles glanced at his watch. The bus back home would be pulling up soon. “I have to go. Good luck figuring stuff out.” 

“…thanks.” 

Stiles stood and shuffled towards the front gates of the cemetery. It didn’t feel like a bad thing, leaving Derek alone with his parents. He didn’t know what the guy’s deal was, but he believed in his father enough to know that if Derek said he’d helped, then he had. 

He felt Derek watching him the entire way out.

* * *

“Lydia, light of my li—” He stopped himself. 

It would be really, _really_ easy.

Stiles didn’t have to do anything too drastic. It wouldn’t be “love magic” strictly speaking. Noting to control her mind or her emotions. Something small. A knot of willow slipped into her locker or her backpack or her purse. Just something to encourage her to look his way. To appreciate the fact that he existed, even if he wasn’t Jackson Fucking Whittemore. If she’d just stop ignoring him and _get_ that he was so much better for her. His hand twitched, already imagining how he would tie the knot. 

And what then?

What if she noticed him and then decided he wasn’t the one for her? Would he go a step further? Slip her a brew to cloud her mind and make her overlook his faults? Bury a few pictures of her with crowfoot, bergamot and roses so she’d feel passion for him and want to stay by his side? Coerce her into loving him and then spend every day wondering if her love was sincere?

Stiles swallowed back a rush of nausea. 

He looked at her. Really looked. All dive feet and three inches of sonnet-worthy feminine perfection. 

But over her shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Jackson watching her when she wasn’t looking with a look in his eyes Stiles had seen a hundred times over the breakfast table between his mother and father.

She blinked when he didn’t finish and turned to look at him. “What?” 

He smiled a bit. “Nothing. See you in math.”

* * *

The fire was dying, leaving only whitened and charred logs glowing dimly against the darkness. Stiles idly flicked a marshmallow over the firepit. It was too cold to make anymore s’mores—and he’d probably get sick if he tried to stuff another one in—but it was seemed a shame to waste the last of the fire’s warmth. 

Stiles finally gave up and pulled his stick back to slide the marshmallow off the end. He stuffed it in his mouth and looked at the mostly-empty bag next to Babcia’s camp chair. She smiled at him and adjusted her shawl to fend off the night air. The last remnants of summer were fading away, and autumn was ushering itself in with early frost and cooler evenings. In the oversized knitted shawl, Babcia looked tiny and frail—words he never would’ve associated with her when she’d first moved to Beacon Hills to take care of him. Five years didn’t seem long enough to have such a profound effect.

“Do you have the bag?” she asked. 

Stiles nodded and pulled the small paper sachet out of his pocket. She gestured to the fire and he threw it onto the remaining embers. It caught immediately, and the scent of the burning herbs inside spread outwards around him. They’d waited until the fire died to make sure the divination was clear. 

It was a bit like cloud-watching; trying to get small glimpses of shapes as the smoke curled upwards. He narrowed his eyes and chewed on his lower lip, gaze flicking back and forth.

“Well?” 

“Give me a second, Babcia. Geez. This isn’t like reading tea leaves.” Which he couldn’t do and frankly found it miraculous that Babcia could. “Okay… there’s a bird. Some sort of flower. And a knife?” He grabbed a battered coil notebook from beside him and began flipping through the countless pages of notes he’d written on divination. The pages were getting a little yellow from constant handling, and even he could tell the difference between the amateurish handwriting in the front and his own use of shorthand the further it went. It wasn’t exactly a leather-bound book of sorcery, but it was his.

“Give yourself time to consider these things, _zabka_ ,” Babcia said. “Rushing into a reading never gives you real truth.” 

“I know,” Stiles said. He flipped towards the back of the book and scribbled down what he’d seen. He could go over it later. 

In the distance, a wolf’s howl broke the stillness of the night air. Moments later, others responded. He’d stayed up one night counting them through until morning, endlessly researching wolf sounds on the internet. There were about fifteen, if he’d counted right which, come on, it wasn’t like he was some sort of werewolf savant. They were amazing to hear, though. 

“The pack’s having a good time tonight,” he muttered, curling up against Babcia’s legs. 

Her hand drifted downwards and tucked into his hair. “It’s the harvest moon. It is a reason to celebrate.” 

Another single howl followed on the trail of the pack’s harmony. The loner. He might run with the pack—Stiles hoped so, anyway, ‘cause it seemed pretty lonely otherwise—but he never howled with them. He worried about that wolf. 

“Put out the fire and then help me up, _zabka_. It is time for this old woman to go to bed.” 

Stiles threw dirt in the firepit and then stood to offer Babcia his arm, half-listening to the chorus of the pack in the distance. Once he got inside, he’d open his window so he could listen to them while he tried to piece together what the symbols meant. 

He generally didn’t sleep during full moons anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

There was something weird in the school. Stiles stopped short when he walked in and the…weirdness hit him like a punch to his…weird. Students moved around him as he took a second to close his eyes and take in a deep breath, centering himself. The hallway smelled like inexpensive perfume and Axe body spray—courtesy of the bathrooms flanking the entrance. Beneath that, the cafeteria lighting up the burners and deep fryer for the lunch hour. Beneath that, the small collection of freaks like him, each one familiar in their own right.

And beneath that…

“Dude.” Scott clapped his back, yanking him out of the headspace. “You’re holding up traffic.” Scott shoved him playfully forward, and Stiles let himself be steered to their lockers. He tried to zone out again when they got there, but the sensation was gone. He frowned.

“There’s something strange going on,” he said. He opened his locker and sorted through the chaotic collection of contents before locating his physics text. 

“Your strange or my strange?” Scott asked. 

“Is strange relative?”

“My strange is waking up and finding out Mom caved and bought me a car. Your strange is, like, spiders falling from the sky or something.” 

Stiles bit his lower lip and chewed on it for a second. “Better buy an umbrella, man.” 

Scott sighed. “Great.” He closed his locker. “We have a pep rally this afternoon. I don’t suppose we’ll be lucky enough that the school could burn down or something before then?”

“Doubtful. It doesn’t strike me as particularly helpful.” Stiles sighed. “Why can’t we have a normal cheerleading team? Our pep squad is the actual worst.” 

The pep squad was new—ish? How long had they _had_ a pep squad?—and begging for an after school special about the Importance and Power of Team Spirit.

“I don’t think enough girls were interested in cheer.”

“Well that’s unhelpfully heteronormative. Guys can be cheerleaders.” Stiles gestured at himself. “I’m spry. I’ve got the legs for it. I could rock out some awesome fan kicks.” He paused. “Unfortunately, I already have a year-long commitment to making sure that the bench is kept toasty for the rest of the team. What would Finstock do without me?” 

“Right? I think he really appreciated you reorganizing his Netflix queue.”

“Exactly. My contributions to lacrosse can’t be neglected just because I’d look amazing in a miniskirt.” He shouldered Scott away from the lockers and towards class. “Shame, really.”

* * *

The dogged sense of wrong followed him throughout the rest of the day. In random corners and hallways. It tripped him up, once or twice, and he found himself getting distracted during classes he couldn’t afford to get distracted in—Harris’ in particular, the jerk. The feeling dogged him like a paper cut under a fingernail, tugging painfully at random moments, even when he tried to ignore it. A headache caught up with him in fourth period and lingered for the rest of the day, pounding against his temples. It was magic. Had to be. Unless it was something stupid like asbestos insulation finally worming its way into his nasal cavities and eating away at his brain.

Needless to say, by the time school was done, he was ready to go home, down half a bottle of Tylenol and stick his head under his pillow for the rest of the night.

“Hey Stiles, remember when you were explaining the pie and cake thing to me last week?” 

“I think my awesome metaphor about the fluidity of human sexuality deserves a better description than ‘the pie and cake thing,’ but yeah. Why?” 

“If you know someone only likes cake, but you suddenly see them eating pie, isn’t that a bit weird?” 

“Well, it depends on the type of pie, I guess. I mean, I enjoy cake myself, but you couldn’t drag me away from the table if there was strawberry rhubarb available.”

“What about April Liegen cake? Does that seem tasty?” 

“Okay, you totally lost me somewhere.” Stiles closed his locker and leveled a confused look Scott’s way. Scott ignored him and instead focused on the scene down the hall, where the captain of the pep squad was hanging off Danny’s arm like she had proprietary rights to it. 

“Oh.” Stiles frowned. “No. I wouldn’t think that anyone would find April Liegen cake too tasty, actually. Generally I think people prefer their cakes to taste less like…” He flapped his hand. “Crazy bitch.” 

And the strange thing was that Danny didn’t seem to mind it. He looked at April with doe-eyed appreciation. April was pretty enough. She wasn’t Lydia Martin, of course, but Stiles had the sneaking suspicion that Helen of Troy would’ve been jealous of Lydia. April enjoyed the perky, beach-babe blondness that tended to endear her to the more brainless of their classmates; all the better to carry around their testicles in her purse, to be tread upon later at her convenience. Danny seemed a bit outside her MO. And, frankly, seeing him smile when she rubbed up against him was a little terrifying.

Jackson seemed to think so, too, because while he as pointedly ignoring her whenever she tried to insert herself in their conversation, his eyes kept drifting to her hands clasped around Danny’s bicep.

A sudden throbbing behind Stiles’ eye brought him back to the grim reality of what he’d been dealing with all day. That bottle of Tylenol was still calling his name and was way more appealing than speculating on Danny’s sex life. Especially as it extended to April. Hopefully, when Danny came to his senses and they broke up, she wouldn’t have a flaming tantrum in the middle of the hallway. Once had been bad enough.

* * *

The feeling was still there the next day. And the day after that. By the end of the week, Stiles was taking double the recommended dosage of painkillers before lunch each day. He cradled his head in the cafeteria while Scott ate his chicken fingers, appetite fled. Every time he tried to focus and figure out what was going on, something distracted him. It was like the magic itself was finding a way to—

“Wow. April Liegen cake must be really tasty.” 

Stiles looked up blearily. April entered the cafeteria with their best midfielder. He glanced across the room towards Danny, who was looking all heartbroken and pining-y. Way more than he should’ve, considering that he apparently hadn’t even had an appreciation of lady parts before Tuesday. 

Noting Scott’s interest, April looked his way and winked. 

Scott flushed. “Maybe…”

Stiles shook his head. “No.”

“But—”

“You need to wait for a cake who will appreciate you and has delicious chocolaty frosting and at least three layers and those weird silver ball candy things that you like even though you broke your tooth on one during your tenth birthday party and yeah, okay, this metaphor has officially gone too far.” Stiles snapped his fingers in front of Scott’s face. “No April cake for you!”

Scott turned his complete attention back to Stiles’ chicken fingers. Satisfied, Stiles chanced his own glance at April. She was watching him, specifically, with the slightest narrowed slant to her eyes and, wow, more painkillers sounded like a fantastic idea. Stiles’ headache intensified and he grabbed his backpack off the ground to fish out the mostly-empty bottle of Tylenol from the front pocket.

After dry swallowing a couple, he looked back at Scott.

“What were we talking about?”

* * *

_Focus_.

Stiles stared at the jar of cloves on the spice rack across the kitchen. He imagined its weight. It’s size. The number of unground cloves still inside. The orange label and the coolness of the glass. What it would feel like to hold it in his hand.

The bottle shook on the rack and inched forward just enough for the cap to stick out from the rest of the bottles on the same shelf, but stopped moving after that.

Stiles sighed and left the stove to retrieve it. At least this time he hadn’t destroyed the entire rack. Getting small things to do what you wanted them to do was so much harder than throwing your magic around in grandiose gestures.

He’d get it eventually. He was a motherfucking Jedi.

A few minutes after he added the cloves, the brew turned dark brown and he turned down the heat to a simmer. 

“What are you up to, _zabka_?”

Stiles looked up from the boiling pot on the stove. “Sorry, Babcia, did I wake you?” He prodded at the contents—the brew was looking a little on the thick side, but any more water and it might get too diluted. He hadn’t wanted to use her good cast iron pot and had grabbed one from their everyday Teflon set instead. It might’ve had something to do with it. Hopefully it would turn out all right.

Babcia moved to his side. “Smells like fennel. And…” She paused. “Cloves?” Warding off evil intent. Clarity of thought. Dispelling negativity. 

“There’s something go on at school, but every time I try to put my finger on it, it avoids me. I think it’s got some sort of self-perpetuating camouflage, which, yes, by far the most annoying thing ever. I cooked this up so I could figure out what the hell is going on.” 

Babcia nodded solemnly. “Be careful.”

“I will.” Before Babcia could turn away, Stiles coughed. “Umm…do you think Dad and Mom would’ve…”

Babcia offered a small smile. “Your father would not have let you leave the house if he thought you would be putting yourself in danger. And your mother…” She chuckled. “Your mother perfected the art of climbing the tree outside his bedroom window and letting herself in.” She leaned closer. “She thought I didn’t know. One morning, I went to wake John up for school when his alarm didn’t go off I found her in his bed. Nina, I said, there is nothing wrong with our front door. Now come and help me figure out my new coffee maker.”

Stiles’ cheeks hurt with the stretch of his smile.

“When you finish with your brew, _zabka_ , go to bed. It’s a school night.”

“Did you say that to meet your random parenting quota for the month?” Stiles asked with a laugh.

“I gave you the sex talk, you cheeky thing. That’s all the parenting I needed to do. I should have left it to the internet, yes?” She kissed his cheek. “Good night.” 

“Night, Babcia.”

* * *

Stiles slugged back the brew Monday morning before he walked into school. The second he stepped over the threshold, he felt the pressure batting at his temples, but it remained a distant sensation; wind blowing against a pane of glass. Sighing in relief, he headed to his locker. 

Scott beat him there. “Stiles, April’s dating Isaac Lahey.” 

Stiles frowned. “Who?”

Scott sighed. “You’re really the worst ever. He’s played lacrosse with us all season.”

“Well, I—”

“ _All season_ , Stiles.”

A sudden slam of pressure pounding at his temples took him off guard and Stiles collapsed heavily against his locker, grabbing the door to keep himself standing. He looked over his shoulder and spotted April walking down the hallway, her new guy on her shoulder. She caught Stiles’ eye—the same way she had in the cafeteria—and tried to stare him down. When he didn’t look away, her step faltered for half a heartbeat.

In retrospect, yeah, he probably should’ve guessed. 

Now that the magic wasn’t trying to squeeze his brain out through his nostrils, he could see the aura hanging off her, cloying and syrupy sweet. A spell designed to attract anyone in whom she showed the slightest interest and keep them trapped. No wonder Danny was still staring after her like she walked on water. He didn’t really have much choice.

“Wanna help me break into the school tonight?” Stiles asked once April had disappeared around the corner.

“Really?” Scott asked. Stiles nodded. “This isn’t going to go well, is it?” 

“Nope.” 

“We’re going to get in the biggest shit for this, aren’t we?”

“Likely.”

Scott ran his hand through his hair, but nodded. “You know, when I get a girlfriend, I’m going to make you deal with this sort of thing on your own.” 

“Don’t worry, dude. Next time you can be Batman.”

* * *

Being in the school after hours was creepy. The exit signs were still lit up, casting most of the hallways in eerie red light that made the entire place seem like the idea setting for a horror movie. And it was strange being alone in the hallways. Even when everyone was in class during school, the usual sounds of human life still filtered out from the classrooms. This complete silence thing was unnerving.

“This is getting to be too much like a horror movie. I feel like we’re going to be attacked and mauled any second,” Scott muttered.

“You knock on wood right now or we are no longer friends,” Stiles said. 

He crouched down and pulled a piece of chalk from his pocket. The other magic was still strongest near the front doors, so he started there. He placed a piece of amethyst on the ground and began sketching out a seeking circle around it. The design was simple but large, arcane symbols filling the inside of the circle in overlapping lines until the amethyst was completely surrounded. 

Stiles finished with a final flourish, and the amethyst glowed bright purple for a second before the light faded away.

“Is that it?” Scott asked.

“Well, now I get to play hot and cold until we find the source of the magic,” Stiles said. He snagged the amethyst and stood. “And you get to watch my back in case your horror movie cliché comes to pass and we have to flee for our lives.” 

“When you asked me if you could play with my Tonka in kindergarten, I didn’t realize this was what I was signing up for.” 

“Shortsightedness on your part, obviously. You should go on TVTropes more often.” 

“I just don’t know where to begin on that site…”

Stiles held the crystal loosely in his palm and made his way down the hall. 

A few false starts and stops later, they ended up next to the pool before the amethyst burned hot in his palm and then cooled completely. Whatever magic April used had to have some sort of physical base. No way a free-floating spell would be that effective at hiding itself; it’d stand out like a St. Bernard among Chihuahuas. But there weren’t a lot of places to hide. And she’d need to hide what she’d done. Around high schoolers, nothing out of the ordinary went unmolested. That meant the equipment locker was out, too. 

But maybe not the filter room.

He pulled out the keys he’d nicked from the janitor’s office earlier that day and unlocked the double doors. The filter was still chugging away, and the hard scent of chlorine hit him like a slap to the face. He flicked on the overhead light and searched the room.

“Stiles?” Scott looked around the other side of the giant filtration tank. “Is this it?” 

Stiles darted around the side. A beaker, presumably stolen from the chem. lab, sat on the floor tucked in towards the back of the filter, hidden from casual observation. There was about an inch of blood inside—which, gross, was that human?—with a bundle of cloth snippings floating around in it. 

“What are those?” Scott asked. 

Stiles came closer. “They look like pieces of our lacrosse jerseys.” 

He checked for any magical warding around the beaker, but it didn’t look like there was any to be had. Super slapdash job. He wondered if April actually knew how to use magic or if she’d just happened upon this particular recipe for raperiffic wrongbad. Gingerly, he picked up the beaker and moved it out into the open. The blood swishing around inside was mostly clotted, and now that he had a clearer look he could see a few other choice items sticking to the bottom. Oh, god, was that a tooth?

“I don’t feel so good,” Scott said quietly, staring at the beaker.

“It’s the magic.”

“Your magic never felt like that.”

“It’s not supposed to.” He placed the beaker on the ground and pulled out his chalk again. “Even if she didn’t use her own blood for this, there’s enough of her magic in here that I think I can block it up. She’ll never be able to use again.” He also grabbed his workbook from his hoodie’s pocket. He flipped through the pages until he came to the right section. He’d never done a permanent binding before, and trying to do so from memory wasn’t going to help anyone.

Stiles suddenly looked up towards the door. Scott followed his gaze. “What?”

“Oh, this is just the part in horror movies where the villain appears and says something like ‘oh, where would be the fun in that’ and then there’s a fight before the young heroes emerge triumphant.” He paused. “Unless we’re in a European horror movie. If that’s the case, we’ll both be murdered. Gruesomely. And April’s reign of terror will continue.”

“I don’t think my having a little fun really constitutes a reign of terror, Stilinski.”

Scott kicked Stiles in the leg. Hard. Fair enough. He probably deserved it. 

The second of the doors opened and April looked into the room. Isaac stood behind her, nuzzling the back of her neck. Without bothering to look at him, she reached back and smacked him away. He recoiled, his eyes widening in hurt. He already had a black eye and a pretty nasty bruise on his jaw. Stiles sniffed; April didn’t seem like she had the upper body strength to do that sort of damage.

“Isaac, these two jerks don’t believe in the truth and beauty of our love.” She turned and ran a finger across the bruise. Isaac flinched, but kept his eyes fixed on her. “You should do something about that.” 

He turned his gaze towards Scott and Stiles, eyes hardening dangerously. 

“I’m going to have to distract him, aren’t I?” Scott asked.

Stiles didn’t respond, flying into action with his chalk even as Isaac tackled Scott into the wall. He started with a circle around the beaker and began working on the inner embellishments. 

“I don’t think so,” April snapped. 

She whipped a silver knife out of her pocket and cut a line into her arm. 

“Oh no. No, no, no. I dealt with enough blood magic shit when I was playing through _Dragon Age_ ,” Stiles grit out.

All at once, the nasty throb of migraine bore down into his skull, as though someone had shoved a drill bit up through his tear duct. Stiles’ hand shuddered and he dropped the chalk. His hand whipped up to his temple and he groaned.

“Doesn’t feel so good to have someone mess up your hard work, does it?” April asked. 

He pulled what remained of his brew out of his pocket and fought to uncork it one-handed. She crossed the room, high heels clicking on the floor. Passing by where Isaac had Scott pinned to the ground, she stopped in front of Stiles’ circle. She kicked Stiles’ hand, and the bottle flew out of his fingers. Her other heel came down on his chalk, grinding it into the ground. 

Scott managed to push Isaac off, but his breath was beginning to come in tight wheezes. April lashed out with the heel of her shoe, the spiky end catching Stiles across the face. He felt a line of heat begin to trickle down his face. His head was still pounding with pain and he fought to catch his breath. To focus.

“Are chalk circles your only trick?” 

Stiles’ jaw clenched. “Nope.”

He focused for a second on the feel of the air around them and pulled all the moisture out to pool under her feet and then concentrated on shoving the air out towards her. April slid backwards in the water and hit the ground with an ‘oof’ that expelled the air from her lungs. He shoved again and she rolled across the floor and out the door. With a flick of his wrist, he slammed them shut.

Stiles scrabbled to grab the largest of the broken pieces of chalk littering the ground and started work on his circle once more. Behind him, Scott’s breathing was becoming increasingly ragged and the sound of a fist hitting flesh made him wince. Stiles glanced back and forth at his workbook as he drew the symbols in the circle. The pain behind his eyes was beginning to blur his vision, and he squinted at the last of the drawings, trying to make sense of them. April was hammering on the door outside, screaming loud enough to be heard over Isaac and Scott’s scuffling. 

He squeezed his eyes shut as he drew the chalk in a final sweep of lines.

The very air around them stilled for a moment. 

Everything snapped like a recoiling rubber band. A crack shuddered open in the ground beneath the circle, splitting it in two, and the beaker shattered along with the tightened pain in his head. Stiles whipped his head around to look towards Isaac and Scott. Isaac was frozen in place, confusion haunting his eyes as he stared at the fist he’d been about to bring down on Scott’s head. 

And Scott…

Shit.

Stiles scrambled towards them and shoved Isaac off, quickly rummaging through Scott’s pockets to find his inhaler. He pushed it against Scott’s lips and depressed the trigger.

“Breathe for me, buddy. Come on.” 

Scott’s hand grabbed his sleeve tightly, but he managed to draw in a breath. After a few normal heaves in and out, Stiles sighed in relief. 

“That sucked,” Scott gasped out.

“Yeah.” Stiles looked over towards Isaac. “You all right, man?” 

“…maybe?” Isaac peered at them through narrowed eyes. “Umm… the fuck?” 

“That about sums it up,” Stiles agreed. He helped Scott to his feet. 

April wasn’t making any noise, and when they opened the door they found her lying prone on the ground, unconscious. The shallow cut on her arm was bleeding sluggishly, but Stiles could still track the steady rise and fall of her chest.

“What should we do with her?” Scott asked. 

Stiles transferred Scott’s weight to Isaac and pulled the janitor’s keys out of his pocket. He dropped them on the ground beside her. “I think she’s going to get caught breaking and entering after hours. Come on. Let’s go pull the fire alarm.”

* * *

Derek took a deep breath inwards, trying to ignore the sting of chlorine in his nostrils. There was blood, of course. Mostly rabbit, from what he could tell, though some of the young lady’s was mixed in. But underneath that there was something else. Something familiar.

“Hale? Anything over there?” 

Derek straightened and looked back at the Sheriff. “Blood, sir. I think animal?” 

Sheriff Richards walked away from where the paramedics were reviving the suspect and looked at the half-dried blood staining the ground. The floor was cracked around it, but beneath some of the blood, Derek could see the vaguest remnants of some sort of chalk drawing. 

“Messy business. The internet makes kids think this sort of shit is cool.” Richards ran a hand through his thinning grey hair. “Get a sample of that and send it down to Sacramento to make sure it’s animal.” 

Derek nodded and waved over one of the other deputies to grab a sample bag. While Richards moseyed back towards the girl, he pulled out his phone to subtly take a picture of the scene. Maybe Deaton would recognize what they were dealing with.

He straightened and headed for the door, pausing before he stepped out of the room. The familiar scent beneath that of the blood finally caught up to him. 

Deputy Stilinki’s son.

He glanced over his shoulder at the mess on the ground once more before nodding to himself and leaving the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to everyone who commented on part one. I have another idea for this series and I'm going to see where it takes me. And since I can't fathom them being in the same room together without simmering at each other, it will be Stiles/Derek.
> 
> The title is borrowed from 'Nova Heart' by Johnny Hollow because I can't come up with original titles for the life of me.
> 
> If you like, you can follow me on Tumblr (calliotrope.tumblr.com). I usually try to keep an up-to-date log of my writing and probably reblog more than is healthy.


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